


Extraordinary

by bloodofthepen



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson wonders why such a man as Sherlock Holmes would ever bother with him. Sherlock, of course, leads Watson through a series of deductions so the good doctor may answer the question himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extraordinary

            I had always considered myself an ordinary man, not strange or abnormal in any fashion, only holding a few more regrettable memories than most average people.

            But Sherlock Holmes, though I neither considered him strange nor highly abnormal, was unusual.

            Not simply unusual.

            Sherlock Holmes was extraordinary.

            Never before the pure luck of coming to reside on Baker Street had I seen a human mind work so flawlessly. Seamless deductions and unraveled mysteries, direct and flowing; point by unarguable point, every problem to cross his path solved as though the answer had been sitting in the open, obvious and simple, the entire time.

            Such a man should never have needed to bother with me. I was merely a medical doctor, a discharged soldier; what could a genius need with me?

            Absolutely nothing; of this, I was convinced for years.

            It was another mystery to which only Sherlock Holmes held the key. I could only gather that Holmes somehow enjoyed my quiet, meager company. Yet if one wanted company, one could easily entertain.

            Holmes did not entertain.

            He disliked visitors of any kind unless they brought him a challenge, and only played violin to suit himself, to further his thoughts as he unraveled a complex series of events.

            He played beautifully.

            I have often stopped mid-sentence in my manuscripts to listen to a haunting or breathtaking melody from the next room. Holmes could have been a world-famous concert violinist, had he not settled as the reclusive and renowned detective on Baker Street. He could coax tears or love or dreams from any man. Yet, I believe only I and the landlady have ever had the fortune of hearing him. For reasons beyond my fathoming, I frequently hear him play some of my favorite pieces once he has resolved the final clues in a case, as though in thanks for my patience and quiet company in his work.

            If one simply wanted pleasant, singular company, one would usually court a woman.

            Holmes especially never entertained women.

            He told me once that women were excessively silly, and that he could not imagine why any man would want one when he could be perfectly complete under his own power. I received many such comments over the years. Jibes regarding the cleverness of women, of womanly folly, and skeptical remarks about the softer passions were common, especially if I ever mentioned (and I seldom did) going out to entertain a woman myself. Living with Holmes usually kept me too busy for such pursuits, however, and I found that I did not mind.

            I would have hazarded an inquiry as to why Holmes never seemed to even consider such a pursuit when he had the time if I did not already know the answer: that it was not because he had been wronged in the past, but quite simply that he had never been involved at all.

Holmes was not merely cold and unfeeling, as those who did not properly know him speculated; it was simply that he was brilliant: the perfect thinking and reasoning machine. If there was no need for a particular piece of information or skill in Holmes’ intellectual pursuits, then there was no room in him for it. Emotions like love or lust would only cloud Holmes’ perfect judgment, and thus, he did away with their pursuit and cultivation. Where most men had the luxury of finding pleasure in these passions, Holmes had long ago chosen his passion for the precise, his adulation for knowledge and reason over any sort of strong emotion that would mar or disfigure any truth which might be found.

            Why such a man wished anyone’s company and even seemed to enjoy mine was beyond my powers of reasoning. Only he had the reason and insight to answer such a question.

 

Then came the day Sherlock Holmes looked at me.

Not as was the common occurrence, of course. That happened often: we looked at each other over breakfast, over lunch, over dinner, across a hansom, across a darkened cellar, across streets, over books, between seats; it was all quite common.

            No; I shall never forget this instance, so unlike all of the others.

            Sherlock Holmes looked at me, his grey eyes unveiled, bare of their constant pondering, their cool control melted, warm, bright with pure, overwhelming, indescribable depth.

            No one had ever looked at me in such a way before.

            I had returned home from a chase to our rooms on Baker Street a full hour past what Holmes had calculated. There was a sharp edge to his voice when he expressed this, his eyes again veiled and aloof.

            But it made me wonder.

            Holmes was concerned. Holmes was deeply and truly worried about my safety and well-being.

            Even when Holmes expressed an inquiry as to my health, he never looked at me in such a manner. No friendly wonder as to how I might be feeling so much as approached altering my companion’s eyes. His expression could convey anything he wanted, but nothing ever touched Holmes’ eyes.

            Save that moment.

 

            I had to know why. In the weeks following, it became a driving need, an obsession paralleling my first couple of months living with Holmes, studying him, attempting to deduce his elusive profession. I could not possibly keep going as usual without some _reason_ , some explanation, but Holmes did not speak of it. Nor did I have the distinct privilege of seeing that look again.

            For hours, days, weeks on end, my mind was filled with the Look. In the depth and privacy of my thoughts, Holmes just kept looking at me—that amazing, astounding Look.

            But I could not possibly bring it up myself.

            Such a question seemed deep, intimately private. To ask about it, to so much as bring forward a reminder seemed unequivocally rude, akin to drawing attention to the blindness of the blind man.

            I tortured myself with silence.

            This was even more difficult than trying to deduce Holmes’ career. There were no clues for me to line up, nothing to record, no leading questions to be asked.

            How to deduce the nature of a man’s thoughts? This was something Holmes never described to me. He had told me many times how to deduce events, motives, murders, predictions, body language, professions, deception, location, trajectory; how to utilize the powers of observation, imagination, detail, patience, disguise; and the dangers of assumption, narrow-mindedness, haphazard planning, carelessness. But never how to know a man’s thoughts. Only the ability to predict his actions.

            I was lost, and left utterly frustrated.

But I had been searching in the wrong direction.

            I should not have attempted to divine what Holmes was _thinking_. Even the great detective admits there is no such art as mind reading.

            It was such an easy mistake to make, however, wherever he was concerned. Considering everything I knew of Sherlock Holmes, it was no wonder I was so easily drawn away from the truth of the matter. I was blind to this in much the same way I could look at every piece of evidence Holmes did and still see nothing of coherence.

            My second mistake was in thinking Holmes, with all his insight and powers of deduction, did not know of my private endeavor.

 

            We had been whiling away the afternoon in the sitting room.

            There was no case to be solved, a warm fire crackled in the grate, and I sat in my usual place on the sofa, a book in my hands, the title and contents of which I had long forgotten and in which I had lost interest, sitting there and staring into the flickering, orange flames. Holmes had been hard at work on some chemistry project or other, but his fervor died out early in the evening and I looked up to find him in the armchair, lighting the long, cherry-wood pipe. Things must not have gone well in his experiment. I went back to watching the fire in the grate, unwilling to risk annoying him. He spent several moments sitting in a state of general brooding, but I was comfortable during the silence, listening to the crackle of the flames. The air was warm, and I slipped easily back into my meditative state, the book lonely in my hands.

            I was unsurprised when Holmes spoke with the cool, rational tone characteristic of his disputative moods. “You have been sitting there for hours without turning a single page in that book, casting alternate glances between the grate and me, and uttering not a word. Why?” he asked directly.

            I blinked and looked up from the fire to find Holmes staring deep into the flames himself, puffing on his pipe. His grey eyes met mine. “You are clearly attempting to unravel a problem. What have you been thinking?”

            An explanation would have been embarrassing for the both of us. “What do you mean, Holmes?”

            “Doctor Watson, you have been silent, uncharacteristically so, and have also, aberrantly, read not one sentence from your book. You have, since one o’clock this afternoon, sat in that same position, and have not taken even the slightest interest in what I was doing only minutes ago, nor in its obvious failure. Something occupies the whole of your mind, Watson, and I do not have to use even a fraction of my considerable talents to deduce it.” He sat back in his chair, raising the pipe to his mouth again, grey eyes piercing mine. “What have you been thinking upon with such intent, Watson?”

            The heavy silence was now uncomfortable, and my gaze could not escape to the sanctity of the orange flames. There was only the cool eyes of a steely, storm-grey sky, caught in the strict, controlled, perfect calm before chaos. This was the perpetual state of Holmes’ eyes. Save…

            “I would prefer you answer, Watson. The silence is offensive.” He would not relinquish me from his gaze. “I will begin theorizing, if I must, but I would believe you might have the decency to tell me, considering the time we’ve spent together.”

            I shifted guiltily. If I lied, Holmes would know instantly. If I stayed quiet, he would be in this mood for days. If I spoke, it would be offensive.

            “You’ve been thinking like this for weeks, Watson. I am sure you have an answer you may give me.”

            I stiffened. How much had he perceived?

            “You have dedicated steadily more and more of yourself to this problem, Watson, and never said a single word to address the issue. What is it?”

            I hesitated. He never took his eyes away from mine, fixing me in place.

            “Watson.” A low tone of voice, cool, bordering on icy, insistent but without threat. My name. My name was enough.

            “Do you remember the night, several weeks ago, of the Jameson chase?”

            My companion nodded, expression veiled. “Yes.” He waited.

            “I wondered—” I began. I paused; began again. “I have been wondering why you reacted the way you did upon my return.” I was nearly flushing with embarrassment, fearing the sure reprimand to come for my foolishness.

            Instead, Holmes merely relaxed and finished his pipe. “Oh? Is _that_ all?” he inquired with an air of carelessness. “Some small part of me had nearly feared you had gotten yourself into a spot of trouble. The truth is quite as I had expected, of course, but there was that small seed of doubt.” The detective leaned back in the armchair, looking much more at ease.

“Well, let’s hear it, then.”

I was taken aback. “Hear what?”

            “Your theory, of course.” Holmes looked mildly amused.

            “My theory? I really could not presume to…”

            “Give me your speculations, then.”

            I was silent, further ashamed I had mentioned it and had let it consume so great a portion of my waking thoughts.

            “Come now, Watson, you’ve been at it for months, and your skills of deduction continue to improve.” Holmes smiled slightly, perhaps at my discomfort.

            “I take no pleasure in your discomfort, John. I am merely very curious, and quite willing to help you clear up the matter, since you’ve been so keen on it. You would not get a chance like this in any usual case, you know. Let’s have them. I will not provide you with an answer, but I can confirm or deny any theories you’ve formulated.”

            I saw it now: this had become a game.

            Holmes’ expression took on an element of seriousness. “Even a game can have a greater purpose, my dear Watson.” I could not help but be a little annoyed at my vulnerability. “Come now—let’s have it. What are your theories for my reaction that evening? You can begin with your evidence and then the corresponding theories, if you like.”

            I sighed. Holmes no doubt knew everything I had been thinking on the matter. What making me say it would do for him other than confirm his own brilliance, I could not imagine.

            The detective leaned forward in his chair. “Humor me,” he said.

            “But that’s just it, Holmes,” I protested, “I have few, if any, plausible theories.”

            “Then let’s have the implausible ones.”

            I was not going to get anywhere in this argument, or indeed, any argument. I spoke slowly, recalling one of my first dejected theories. “I had speculated that perhaps it was due to my value to you, but I realized, of course, that I am not necessary to your endeavors in solving cases.”

            Holmes nodded. “Not completely essential by any means, but useful to have along, yes.”

            I shook off the slight sting of having my comment confirmed. “And you could surely find a dozen other chaps to help pay the rent,” I added, just barely keeping a bitter tone from rising into my voice.

            “Few so easy to get on with as you, and probably none as willing to put up with my eccentricities; but in theory, yes,” answered Holmes frankly, steepling his fingers. The detective’s symbol of thought or interest. Interest, I supposed.

            “The change in routine would probably bother you most, I thought.” This had been last week’s theory. “You may wonder about what to do for a couple of days, Holmes, but you’re very adaptable—you’d find a new routine and a new flatmate soon enough.”

            “Not one who could replace you, Watson,” said Holmes with honest conviction. “But I would certainly stop ‘wondering what to do’ within about four hours.”

            That stung. A matter of hours, not even a day, to find a routine and move on. I was little more a friend than a dog might be.

            I swallowed my injured pride and continued, unwilling to show that a little more than simply my self-esteem was affected. “My next thought was common human compassion, but you would have only been relieved at my arrival, had that been the case.” My gaze drifted to the floor as the detective replied.

            “I was relieved, I will admit, but you are correct in dismissing the theory.”

            Silence.

            “And now, Watson—your plausible speculations?”

            “I am at a loss now, Holmes! That’s it. There is nothing else,” I admitted moodily. Had the roles been reversed, Holmes would have figured it out long before now, and I currently had no evidence or plausible theory to stand upon.

            The detective was quiet a moment, steepled fingers pressed to his lips. “You have eliminated every theory presented by the facts as you see them, then?”

            “Yes.”

            The ghost of a smile touched Holmes’ lips. “In that case, my dear Watson, please allow me to remind you of a particular adage of mine, which I believe you will find of some use in this instance.”

            I relaxed slightly, glad I was not completely dismissed from the conversation for my incompetence, and pleased I might finally get something of an answer to this slight obsession. “Of course, Holmes.”

            The detective’s expression was difficult to read—some amusement; interest? a hint of that long-sought depth?—as he said, “When you have eliminated the impossible, John, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

            I was silent, my thoughts whirling. I looked back into the flames of the grate.

“But there is nothing else, Holmes. I have not a single theory left to draw upon!”

            He shook his head. “Come now, my dear Watson. Surely there must be something else—one more option, one more theory. A mystery cannot stand without a solution.”

            There _was_ one more option. For weeks it continued reoccurring, but it had also been my habit to dismiss it immediately. I would not even let myself think it. Each time such an idle speculation drifted my way, I would staunchly clamp down upon it—send it away with the tide, any number of excuses and explanations attached.

            That could not be the answer he wanted.

            “There is not a single thought left, Holmes.”

            “Not one?” his expression came as dangerously close to disappointed as I had ever seen.

            I shook my head.

            Holmes leaned back in his chair, expression quickly wiping itself completely clean. “Your lie is disappointing in the extreme, Watson.” His tone was clipped. “If you desire not to continue, you need only tell me, doctor.”

            “I—that is not—” I stammered. “I don’t mean to suggest I do not wish to continue; I would very much like to know, Holmes. I simply…”

            “You simply lied for no reasonable cause, despite the fact that I have done nothing to merit any breach of trust.”

            I felt my cheeks redden. “It’s—it’s simply _not right_ , Holmes! It would have been far worse _not_ to lie when my only other theoretical option is…” I clamped my mouth shut, looking at the floor. “It’s a horrifically rude thing to even suggest.”

            “I requested your theory, Watson.  If it mattered to me that any suggestion which you might put forward could be considered rude by the general population, I would never have made such a request. Surely you know this, my dear man. My definition of rudeness often violates convention, as I believe you have taken the liberty of pointing out on more than one occasion.” Holmes’ eyes were cool as he folded his hands. “Now, doctor; please enlighten me.”

            I remained silent a moment, my eyes intensely examining the carpet.

            “Watson.”

            I raised my head to look at him.

Holmes’ grey eyes smoldered.

“What is the answer?”

The words sprang to my lips, bidden completely by the man before me, formed and spoken through no command of my own. “Somehow, you love me.”

For a moment, Holmes appeared to have no words. A strange look appeared on his face, such as I had never seen. The strict lines around his eyes softened, his mouth quirked so slightly in a gesture of relief, of genuine happiness—not simply the triumph he commonly displayed at the close of a successful case. His hands, his graceful hands, lay in his lap, unsure of their next task, and his rigid posture slackened visibly. His stormy eyes shone with depth and clarity. At last, he said, voice soft:

“Yes, John. Yes, my dear Boswell. That is the answer.”

He met my eyes with the very same passion and depth I had seen that night, weeks ago. “I love you.”

I was unsure, at first, of how to respond. I was exhilarated, I was frightened, I was astounded—I was happier than I could ever recall. And suddenly, I knew: “I love you.” There was no other answer.

The detective closed his eyes, an expression of conflicted joy capturing his features, his brow furrowed slightly, his head bowed. “My name,” he whispered faintly. “My name, my good man; please.”

“Holmes?”

He shook his head, almost desperately. “My _name_ , John.”

I realized.

“Sherlock.”

His name tasted sweet on my lips, like freedom.

I did not know any human being could display, let alone contain, such happiness. Sherlock had opened his eyes, and they shone with such depth and warmth, a fire and passion, a pure being and truth as I could never describe with justice. He smiled, warm and inviting, tender and sharp.

For several minutes, or perhaps simply seconds, we shared a silence as the fire crackled in the grate. Unlike the others, it was not merely a comfortable silence, nor a quiet for strict contemplation, but a moment of pure, shared existence.

Sherlock continued looking at me. I do not know what he was searching for, but at last he seemed to find it: his expression settled, but still retained its intensity. The detective’s rationality seemed to have regained control.  He smiled, very slightly. “You seem to have particular trouble remembering that important element of deduction, my dear doctor. Improbability does not equate to _impossibility._ ” I ducked my head slightly at that, and his smile took on a cast of mischief. “But perhaps,” Sherlock continued, “I can find a way to aid in your remembrance of this lesson.”

Before I could reply, his lips were pressed to mine.

Thus was solved the mystery of Sherlock Holmes and his flat-mate in the Case of the Grey Rationale.

 

            Beyond reason, Sherlock Holmes was completely extraordinary. His wonder proceeded beyond his logic and powers of deduction, extending into—indeed—the softer passions.

            And though I never considered myself unusual, I loved him.


End file.
